


The Night That Never Left Us

by dbcwinter



Series: The Bars Between Us series [1]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24117508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dbcwinter/pseuds/dbcwinter
Summary: A prequel to Sandcastles. Can also be read as a stand-alone fic set in 2x10.
Relationships: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi
Series: The Bars Between Us series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740184
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Dear all,
> 
> this is a short prequel to my story titled Sandcastles/The Bars Between Us that I wrote last year. It can also be read as a stand-alone fic set in 2x10. I thought about posting the story as one long chapter but decided to divide it into a few short chapters. I hope it cheers you up and brings you something to look forward to in these uncertain times.  
> I hope you and your loved ones are well. Much love, winter.

**The Night That Never Left Us**

**Chapter One**

* * *

The dust had settled on the Buttercup Road and the day had settled into the afternoon. They were in the motel, the wound on his arm was tended to, and as reluctant as he was, he knew she needed some space.

So Michael closed the bathroom door behind him, putting up yet another barrier between Sara and himself. He leaned on the sink, letting out a sigh he was hiding from her since his feet had touched the gravel of the Buttercup Road. She was _okay_ – well, as okay as someone could be after finding themselves in ruins because of bad faith.

He had thought his scheme reached its nadir when Bellick told him about her overdose. Then she informed him of her father's death, unequivocally placing the governor's blood on his hands, as if he hadn't already been crumbling under the mound of the body count. He had never been arrogant enough to believe his plan would unravel swimmingly, but by now it had failed so spectacularly that falling in love was by far the most innocuous detriment. If one discounted the furor it caused in her life, of course.

He left the bloodstained clothes neatly folded by the sink. The warm stream of water was soothing, ridding him of the dust of the desert and the sweat of the chase. His forehead sought the cool tiles in hopes of quelling the panic that constricted him. _She didn't say yes_. Maybe Mahone had appeared before she could realize that Panama was the safest, the _only_ option to consider as far as she was concerned. But the gun she had stared at in the abandoned factory had to prove to her that while people may be after her, bullets that waited to pierce through him, and his brother, were manifold. He could deal with any blemish on his plans but the one of her not getting out.

There was nothing about her mien when she tended to his freshest wound to make him hopeful, let alone confident that she would still be there, perched on the bed or standing by the window, once he'd emerge from the bathroom.

He wanted to ditch the vagueness of his words, replace the casualness of his request with the reality of his fears. They, whoever it was that had set this nightmare in motion, knew she had left the door unlocked that last evening in Fox River. They had to guess by now that she was important to him. He knew they wouldn't think twice before taking her to entice him out of his plans or shoot her dead to teach him a lesson.

Michael couldn't think of the last day that had passed without his heart sinking, but never before had it felt as devastating as now when there was a knock on the door. Too many people had been instructed to shoot him on spot and too derailed his plans had gotten for him not to assume the worst. He let the water running as he listened for a voice that was not hers or shrieks induced by someone's hands on her. Nothing gave away any struggle.

He shut off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist. Still not entirely pacified, he looked around for something, anything he could use as a weapon, and chided himself for forgetting it wasn't just the two of them, but the two of them against the world.

He ran his hand over his head, hoping it hid the relief when he opened the door and Sara was all he saw. Glancing over her shoulder, no shards from the broken window were dotted across the floor and the thick curtain was undisturbed, still keeping them hidden from their hunters, for now.

"Sorry, I am so sorry," said Sara. There was a kettle in her hands and a light blush resting on her cheeks as though she had not seen his inked chest before. But they weren't in Fox River anymore where the coat she had worn assigned their roles. "I just need some water."

When he reached for the kettle, his knuckles brushed against hers. It might be coincidental, it would be accidental with anyone else, but he caught himself wanting it, and the way her eyes didn't connect with his, he knew she did, too.

The door behind her slowly came to a close. The steam covered their reflections in the mirror, leaving them only to each other. They were not a slot in her schedule, there was no one already waiting to see her. No nurse would burst into the room after a knock too quick to hide any indiscretion. He was no longer an inmate and she no longer his doctor; now, they were a man and a woman, finally freed of everything that had kept them away from each other. The time they might still not have, but they had right now. He wanted to take off her clothes, pull them off her, let the towel crumple on the floor. He wanted to taste her on his tongue, wanted her hands to tease him, pull her into the shower after him. pin her against the wall, have her wrap her legs around him, love her, fast, because he didn't know how long they had, quick, so that he could do it again.

He was ashamed of just thinking about this, about her, like this in this place, in these hours.

"Sure," he said. His eyes sought her face as much as hers were avoiding him, and he felt the cold all over him.

_She didn't say yes._

But she was here, still, he tried to reassure himself. Failed, because the morning was still too far away for him to succeed.

"Everything's okay, right?" he asked.

She was still looking at everything but him.

"What? Of course," she said. She forced a smile upon her lips but it did not undo the frown between her eyebrows. He wanted to reach out, take her hand, and make her look at him, listen to him as he reassured her, see the conviction as he reassured her. His mind that never stopped racing, computing the odds that were against them; he had to believe, for her, that things would be okay.

But the kettle was now full and she turned the water off, taking the kettle out of his hands, swiftly, as if she couldn't wait to get away from him. He hated it, of course he hated it, but he couldn't blame her for it.

If until then there had always been words on his tongue when he needed them, an apology would now not leave his mouth. It was just two syllables, and he had never had a problem saying them, even at times when they weren't as warranted as now. But now they seemed so insignificant that they would make no difference even if he said them two billion times.

Sara noticed his struggle.

"What?" she asked.

He just shook his head.

"Don't use all the hot water," she said before shutting the door, shunning him away again.

* * *

To Be Continued.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear all,  
> thank you for welcoming and reading this story! I hope you are all doing okay and staying safe.  
> I will do my best to post a new chapter every Friday.  
> love, winter.

**The Night That Never Left Us**

**Chapter Two**

It was evening. The sun had already settled for the day, and the ends of her hair were still wet when she came out of the bathroom. Michael was bracing against the door of their room, giving no indication he knew she was there. She may barely know this man but knew better than to think anything escaped him.

Sara threw the towel on the bed and ran her fingers through the wet ends, her eyes on the back he kept turned to her.

"Hey, you okay?" she asked.

Michael straightened his back and turned to face her. His breathing was labored under the weight of whatever he was about to say. Her hands went still, then slowly fell to sides of her body. She was unsure of what to think while sure she didn't want to hear it, once again catching herself wanting to give him a free pass.

"I looked you up. I did my research before I got to Fox River," he said. "That's how I knew about Gandhi."

"Michael, what are you doing?"

"I told you once that there are answers to your questions. I'm giving them to you, now."

"You don't need to explain it to me. All you did, it was to save Lincoln. I understand," she said, averting her eyes again. He stepped closer, for him, but kept space between them, for her.

She was his biggest worry, his bigger fear, but it walked hand in hand with the only moments he found any respite. He watched her as she glanced around the room, looking for an excuse to get him off her mind, watched as the dim light fell upon her face and none of the shadows could mar her grace. Her hands fumbled with nothing in them, the hands that stopped the blood and made the pain better.

Perhaps he was unfair to her, telling her all this now, in here, when they were running for their lives and this room was the only place where they could catch their breaths. She had nowhere to go. The sound of his voice brought back the words he had spoken in the infirmary, the calculations that cost her the life she had struggled to assemble. And whenever she looked at him, it must bring back the sight of her father as he hanged there, dead.

She had welcomed his touch. Seeing him made the long hours seem shorter, back when they had been in Fox River. There had been something, there might have been something someday. But under the circumstances that brought them to each other, they perhaps had never stood a chance.

Maybe he should just leave it, get them out, make sure she was safe, then leave, leave her alone. He could never undo the devastation he had caused, but he didn't need to be a reminder of it. But he was never as strong, as noble, as he considered himself to be. When she was this close to him, he could not deceive himself even if he wanted to.

But he tried. He made a step back, slid his hands in the pockets of his pants. He had stood like that the last time they had seen each other before things had forever changed.

"I don't expect you to believe me, Sara, just like I understand if you can't forgive me, but please, let me explain. I just want to be honest with you."

_Why?_

It was the first thought that went through Sara's head, but she kept herself from saying it out loud. She knew why. It was why he was here, with her, in Gila, a place that felt like the dead-end, an obstacle on his way to safety, a waste of time. It was in his voice the time he had called her; it was the fact that he had called at all. She was of no benefit to him anymore, there were no more keys that he needed, and now when her father was dead, she was no leverage. It would have been easier, for both, had he left nothing behind the night he had broken out. Safer. No one would have been after her if it was not for the messages he had sent, and the man from today would not have found him.

He wanted her here. All she brought along was trouble, but he didn't care.

It was a notion so unfamiliar to her, being wanted regardless, sought out regardless, that there was a thousand things easier to believe than the answer to this why. She found herself wanting to give him more than he was asking for, again, giving herself to him in her entirely, letting him take over her, like he was a syringe in her vein.

"Okay," she said.

"I needed to be in the infirmary. It was the only way out of there. That's why I pretended to be a diabetic. But you, you getting involved, it was never the plan. I corroded the pipe under the drain in the corner. That's how we were supposed to get in. That night, when Lincoln fell ill. That was my doing as well. We were supposed to leave that night. But they replaced the pipe."

"I figured as much."

"You know what I did before Fix River, right?"

"Are you saying I shouldn't be mad that you looked me up, because I did the same?"

Any other time, she would say it with a smile. And any other time, he would respond with his tone light, a grin that teased, eyes that squinted a little. Today, he disregarded it.

"That's how I got hold of the blueprint."

Michael hesitated for a second before pulling his t-shirt over his head. The curtains were still drawn and the only light in the room came from one of the nightlights, but Sara understood.

"Your tattoo is the blueprint of Fox River," she said, and there was no need for him to confirm it. All those times, when she looked at it: when she counted his heartbeats, when she cleaned up the burn on his back. Not once did she think it was a pattern. It was lines, numbers, words. She thought it was a collection of mementos of moments, people, and she was pretty sure everyone had thought the same.

This man. So full of intricacies, plans, foresight. She wanted to believe she was the one thing that took him by surprise, but every line on his torso had been there to lead him somewhere.

She remembered the smoke, the locked door that was giving in, the screaming, the laughter, the fear. A hand reaching for her from the ceiling. The little moments when they were together, and there were people after them, people aiming at them, people dying.

The first time she caught him lying.

"That's how you knew how to get around," she said. "The pipes."

"Sara, about the riot…"

"Don't," she stopped him.

"I need you to know…"

Just like a syringe in her arm. He shut out the world, painted over her broken chain of thoughts, calmed her, then broke her further. He was a moment, just like he was devastation beforehand, a threat of complete destruction after. She had lived through it, so many times. She didn't need to hear it, again.

"You got me out. You didn't need to, but you did. I don't care about anything else."

"I didn't think you would be in…"

"Stop it, Michael," Sara stopped him again, sitting down on the bed, on the side that was furthest from him. "So the psych ward, you also faked that?"

He bit his lip and bowed down his head in answer. She sighed and rubbed her forehead, as if trying to erase the memories she had of his blank stare and unresponsive mind.

His voice dropped to a whisper when he continued, unsure whether he should be mentioning it at all. He did know what reaction he wanted, and just like in the bathroom, it abashed him, thinking of her this way after all the ways in which he had hurt her.

"And I did only marry her so that she could get her green card. That was all it was. In return, she smuggled things in when I needed them."

"Like my keys, you mean," she said, like the theft was the betrayal that hurt the most.

"As cowardly as it was to ask someone else to take them, I couldn't do it myself."

He had tried. As their eyes met, he knew she knew. The kiss. The moment when he had been at his most honest; a moment that sprung out of him at his most manipulative. If he felt sorry for the other things he had done, this one abashed him.

Sara was the first one to speak.

"As I've said, I can't be mad at you for saving your brother."

She smoothed out the sleeves of her blouse, only to roll them up to her elbows. He watched as the skin was revealed. He tried not to, he scolded himself for failing, for while the mark he knew was there had all to do with him, it had absolutely nothing to do with him.

"When you looked me up," she started, careful with the words she chose. Michael still stood there, by the door, giving her time she needed to put her thoughts in words, giving her space without wondering what it was she needed to say. "Did you ever wonder why you never read anything about me being in rehab?"

"I figured it was because of your father," he said.

"He sent me to a facility in California. You know the type. Told everyone I was traveling. I stayed there for a few months. Bruce came to visit me every couple of weeks. Dad called, sent me flowers. Lots of flowers. You're supposed to have these family sessions, when your family shows up and you talk, trying to understand the origins of your addiction, what contributed to it. He didn't show up for a single one, always meeting someone, going somewhere. You see, it was in the middle of the most important race of his life, just like you are now racing for your and your brother's life. I had to get away. Disappear. He didn't want an impediment like me anywhere near him. And yet here I am, today."

Being unwanted. Like she sought comfort in what took her pain and thoughts away, he shut out the world to all but his brother, and Veronica. So different they were, yet alike, and it brought them here, to each other. Whatever they were, the right thing, a coincidence, a mistake anyone but them could see from a mile away – right now, they only had each other.

He sat down on the bed next to her.

"You are not an impediment, Sara."

He expected her to argue, point out that he would have been out of Gila, out of America if he didn't feel the need to save her. All she did was rest her head on his shoulder.

"I don't want to be alone," she said.

"You're not," he said and turned his head to the left, tilting it down just enough for his lips to brush against her skin. She closed her eyes rather than moving away, so the next contact he made was a kiss on her temple. She wrapped her arms around him, leaning her body against his, and it was what he had wanted, for longer than he dared to admit to himself. Sara, with him, in his arms, safe. When he held her like this, he could so easily believe that he could keep her safe, keep the world away, create a world for just them.

But it wasn't just the two of them either.

There was a knock on the door.

* * *

To Be Continued.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all,
> 
> thank you for reading.  
> I hope you are doing well and staying safe. Enjoy the chapter and feel free to review.  
> I will post the final chapter sometime next weekend.  
> Until then,  
> much love, winter.

**The Night That Never Left Us**

**Chapter Three**

**.**

"Are you…" Sara started, but Michael hushed her, listening for another knock. When it came, he tried to read its intent. It was ridiculous, he knew that; it was a knock, not a particularly rushed one, nor particularly stretched out. A stream of possibilities flooded his mind, and while he couldn't pick one that made most sense, he could easily point out the one he feared most.

"Hide under the bed," he whispered to her. She knew from his reaction that he didn't know who it was, nor did he expect anyone, and her eyes widened. She wanted to offer help, even if it was just a suggestion, but all that surrounded them was walls. On the Buttercup Road, they had had a road ahead of them, a road that could get them away. Now they were trapped in a room, the only window leading directly into the hands of the person the door kept away, for now.

Neither knew what to do while they both knew there was only one thing to do. They gave each other one more second, just one, but brevity always made their moments seem longer. Anytime they were frozen in time, in place, together, and the world around them was rushing against their favor, when things were supposed to be at their messiest, there was nothing but clarity. It was ridiculous, the weight of the words he struggled to say, when it was nothing compared to what triggered them.

"I…" he started.

"I know," Sara said. She laid her hand on his shoulders, quickly, too briefly. He wanted to lean forward, destroy the distance, the bars between them, but there was never time, not unless they stole it. There was the damned knock again and she crawled under the bed. Michael untucked the bedspread, pulled it to him so that it fell to the floor, hiding her. It wasn't much and it could so easily be futile if someone saw right through the decoy. She had left her purse on the table. He picked up the towel from the bed and threw it over the purse, and it felt just as futile. But it was all he could do and there was never enough he could do to protect her.

A gun was in the pocket of his jacket. Until today, Michael would have never pulled a trigger with the intention to aim. As he took the gun out now, he knew he would never let her get in anyone's aim. He neared the door, and his hand was on the knob when they knocked again. The gun was behind his back, just out of their sight, but ready, and as he opened the door just enough to see who it was, it would take him less than a second to gun them down.

A kid of about seventeen stood on the other side of the door. His face was red in places, his jaw overworked the gum in his mouth, and a bunch of leaflets was in his hands. He wore a cap with the name of the motel splashed in front. Michael remembered him from the reception desk when they had checked in.

"Hey, man," the kid said with a casual grin on his face.

Nevertheless, the grip on the gun remained unabated, just to be sure. Michael leaned forward, looking to the left and to the right of the man, towards the stairs and down to the parking lot, looking for everything and anything suspicious, finding nothing. A man was putting a duffel bag in the trunk of a car, a woman was crossing the parking lot, counting the bills in her hands before stuffing them in her wallet, giving a quick kiss to the man before opening the door of the passenger side. Two teenagers sat on the hood of a car, smoking, with no intention to hide it.

It seemed unreal that there was nothing, that they had no one on their trail, no Bellick in a car with darkened windows, no agents in vehicles in imposing numbers. Is this how their lives would be from now on? Their hearts racing at the slightest noise they didn't anticipate, their minds rushing to worst conclusions at the smallest sight that was unexpected? Always living for the moment, out of fear that it was all they would have, mixing the good with desperation and urgency, until one day perhaps forgetting why they used to think the stolen moments were worth it? The relief Michael had felt for a moment now turned into cold that made it hard to breathe again. He wanted to give her more, so much more.

The kid noticed the reaction, going, "Whoa, man."

"What is it, man?" Michael asked, tucking the gun behind his belt. In this place, out of sight yet relatively close to the border, drawn curtains and fingers on triggers had to be an occurrence not unheard of, as the guy just shrugged it off. He offered one of the leaflets to Michael.

"Forgot to give you these things for the television," he said. "It has channels written on. So that you don't have to look for 'em."

"Thanks," Michael said, his eyes on the folded paper, his mind a thousand miles away. As soon as the kid wished him goodnight, he shut the door. He threw the leaflet on the table, not bothering to pick it up when it slid off and slowly lost its fight against gravity. He walked straight to the bed. Having heard the exchange, Sara was already getting on her feet, and he reached for her, pulling her up, straight into his arms.

"It's okay," he said, to calm her, to calm himself. "It was nothing. We are okay."

It could have so easily been something. Any moment, it could be something. They would have to get to Panama to have peace, to find safety, the peace they had right now, the safety they found in each other.

Having her in his arms and feeling his arms around her wasn't enough anymore. They wanted more, right now, when they could, wanted to get their minds off the danger that lurked, make their hearts race with something other than fear. So he loosened the grip he had of her, the insides of her wrists rested on his shoulders, and his hand cupped her face as he kissed her, without seeking permission or looking for it in her eyes.

Even if he would have wanted to apologize after, she wouldn't let him. Her lips claimed his again, and he felt her hands go down, grabbing the hem of his t-shit, pulling it up. Every inch of his skin that was revealed she caressed with the palms of her hands, frantically, aimlessly, desperate and scared. He wouldn't have wanted it like this, but nothing had been going the way he wanted, and he wasn't presumptuous enough to think it would from now on. The only thing he was sure of, could be sure of, that he had her, in front of him, and that she wanted the same thing as him.

So he gave it to her.

He rushed to undo the buttons on her blouse, almost missing one, push the fabric away, relishing in the skin it revealed. His hands were on her hips, his fingers pulling her closer, her skin hot under his lips, and he loved the way she arched into him when his tongue left her mouth and went lower. Her hands were on his belt, undoing it, pulling him closer to keep him close as she stepped back, the backs of her knees hitting the edge of the bed. It amazed him how silent the world was, for what felt like the first time in forever.

Now her blouse was discarded on the floor, together with his t-shirt. He pushed the straps of her bra off her shoulder, and it was as if he set out to kiss every inch of her skin, caress her every mole with a brush of his lips, make a map of every curve of her body. One of his knees was between her legs, completely languid and so tantalizingly far from where she wanted it. Every time she attempted to do something other than let him take what had to be so minute in comparison to what he was giving her, there was one of his hands placed modestly on her belly. It pressed her into the crumpled sheet under her, away from and exactly to where she wanted to be.

He knew he should ask before he undid the button on her jeans, kissed her through her underwear; before he slid the fabric off her hips, let his hands take in the smoothness of her legs, felt her on his fingertips. He would have, in another place, in another time, where he would have taken her out to dinner first, when they would walk back to his place, the sidewalks narrowing, bringing them closer, until he would have the key of his apartment in one hand and her hand in the other.

But it wasn't part of their path, just like she had not been part of his plan.

Suddenly he moved away. She thought he heard danger she didn't and panic rushed through her, and she lifted herself up. But he moved away just enough for them not to touch and only ran his hand over his scalp rather than ran to get the gun.

"What are you doing?" she asked, perplexed.

"I don't have any protection. I wasn't arrogant enough to expect…"

"I'll just go to the pharmacy in the morning. It's okay. Really. Just don't stop. Please."

She couldn't believe this was a thing for him. It should be for her, too, but it never had been. There were nights she still had no recollection of, men she didn't know she could trust, actions she didn't remember agreeing to, and it would not be the first time she would take a trip to the pharmacy to keep them undisclosed.

But he, he had always planned things out in detail, thought them out to the least possible contingency, never got caught in the moment empty-handed, until now. He had wanted her, still wanted her, wanted this, them, naked, together, yet did not expect, nor anticipate, this. She was a woman used to being a convenience as much as an inconvenience, wanted in all the wrong ways, discarded right when she needed someone the most. Considered, no, she had never been that, nor respected, despite the white coat she wore. Now this man was putting her first rather than taking what he ached to have, must have.

She laid her forearms on his shoulders, and though she could see he still disliked the idea, he didn't fight it. His eyes darted to his right and fell down, right to the crook of her elbow where a mark was, the mark that had almost taken her and he felt responsible for.

She didn't want to think about it.

Her hands slid down the torso, in total contrast to the delicacy of the inked lines, down to his hips. She felt him through the fabric of his trousers, then slid her hand underneath. He leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, and she pulled his trousers off his hips, without teasing taking him in her hand, feeling his want with her every stroke.

His hands were now on her shoulders, gently but firmly pushing her backward, lying her back down. Her legs were open, inviting, inviting him, and for once, he gave the control of tomorrow over to someone else and focused on right now. And right now, they were together.

The way it felt, they forgot to breathe, as if afraid of dispersing it. Once he finally moved, so gently she could barely take it and so slowly it sent her heart into a frenzy, his eyes were on her face. He was perusing the smallest reaction his body had on hers. It should make her feel exposed and self-conscious, but under his tenderest touch she was nothing but loved.

She kept one of her legs around his hips. The other she slowly slid down his thigh, emulating the speed he had opted for, and he trembled in her arms. A sigh escaped him, as if he was overwhelmed before he could whisper her name. Now that he was ensconced between her legs, he could only get closer to her. The control he had been sporting seemed to finally be cracking, for the next time they moved, it was faster, rawer. His fingers disappeared among the auburn tresses that fell across her shoulders in disarray to cradle the back of her head, to get her closer, and his mouth sought hers in lust that was no longer restrained. Before he could remember decorum again, she lifted her hips, and sliding a hand on her lower back, he pressed her to him, decidedly yet carefully so as not to leave marks on her skin.

He placed his other hand over her breast and she arched into its unbearable lightness.

"Don't," he growled before his lips vanished in the crook of her shoulder.

"Why not?" she teased, and a wrinkle between his eyes indicated his disapproval. "We have time."

In the silence of their room, broken only by their breaths, in darkness, when all they could see was each other, it was so easy to believe it. No demons lurking, no guns blaring, no healing needed; just time. Time to be together, like this, again and again, give each other all they had, receive more than they thought was possible in the return. Maybe it was the right thing to hold on; maybe it was a disservice to what they could be and especially to what they had incurred. But by now, she couldn't think anymore. This time he let her arch into him, all the while keeping the rhythm that ravaged through her, keeping his eyes on her, as though determined to remember it all.

As the madness that permeated her breathing began to subside, she met his eyes again. He was still holding on, giving her all of him. She ran her hand over his bowed head, and one more slide of her leg finally undid him.

"We have all the time in the world," she whispered.

* * *

To Be Continued.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all,
> 
> I'm sorry it took so long to post the final chapter, I got caught up in school work.
> 
> I hope you are all doing well and staying safe.  
> I hope you enjoyed this short fic, I certainly had fun revisiting Sara and Michael :) The story continues with Sandcastles. Thank you all for reading, and please review.  
> Much love,  
> winter.

**The Night That Never Left Us**

**Chapter Four**

The sun had long set. The heat of the night had been enriched by the burning of their skin, and they had opened the window for zephyr to remind them their touches were real. Lone cars were passing by the motel with no reason to stop and every reason to keep going; somewhere someone shut the door and someone else found something to laugh about. Farther out, someone was tending to his wounds, each pang further fueling the rage to finish what he had begun. He wasn't alone; there were others, with faces known and many still unseen, who wouldn't spare a thought before pulling a trigger. But tonight, none of it could get to them. They were in their own little world; they were lost and never before had they felt like they belonged somewhere more than they did now.

She lay so close to him that only her hair was sprawled across her side of the bed. His arms, darkened with ink yet so light on every inch of her skin, were pressing her closer to him, even though there was no space left for the heat of love between them. Their foreheads touched, and he stared into her eyes as if he saw her for the first time with every blink. And she stared back, completely incredulous. It had been fast, the way she fell for him, but she would be lying if she claimed not to have seen it coming. The flutter of her heart each time he walked into her infirmary, the ease with which her eyes found his name on a list of scheduled appointments for the day. Now she was fatherless, a fugitive, without the one thing that had kept her clean before she met him, and there were still butterflies in her stomach at the slightest movement of his body. Perhaps she was still falling, not yet in the shallows of realizing what had transpired.

"Tell me about Panama?" she said.

A sigh of content escaped his lips and a smile teased in their corner.

"Well, I have a boat ready there," he said. When, unlike him, she didn't hide a smile, he went, "What?"

"Nothing, just … I, um, I always kind of wanted to live on one," she said. The little things, the trivialities, the childish dreams, the thoughts that invade the mind when the evening is as far away as the morning; they had foregone them all, went right to the core, risked what matters most without having any foundations to rely upon. But she had opted for foundations first, a few times before, with other men, men that had nothing against them, she argued. It had still brought her here; so, really, it would be hypocritical to bemoan the speed that landed her in this bed, in a town whose existence she was ignorant of just days ago. Tonight, the self-righteousness won over any argument.

The pad of his thumb followed the curve of her lips, so gently she could barely feel it, so lovingly she could barely take it. It had never felt like this; even in her numbness to the ruins caused and found in Chicago, she felt his every touch, his want, his honesty. Her mind was clear, her heart never more alive, so unlike the times she escaped with a needle in her vein. How could this be bad for her, be inherently bad in any way? She could enumerate a dozen reasons but they were just words, words to be stomped upon like leaves in the autumn.

"Sara. I'll give you everything I possibly can. Whatever you want, we'll have it."

Possibilities. So many things she could want, so many things he could give to her. What crossed her mind first, though, what stayed and quietened everything else before she could think of it, was simple, as simple as a wish could be. A start, a new start that iterated every day, ensured every day, forever.

"So breakfasts, just the two of us?" she whispered.

He considered his words, as if unsure whether they fit. His eyes were still on her lips, resolute not to meet hers, as he spoke.

"I wouldn't mind if one day it wouldn't be just the two of us anymore."

There was doubt in his voice, as if he feared it was too much, too soon. It probably was, but they would probably be shot at when the sun was up again, chased like animals. Probably had lost its meaning to them; it was too rational a word in their irrational world.

"I guess Lincoln could show up from time to time," she teased, and she felt him smile against her collarbone. "Does he know you've asked me to come with you?"

"I haven't told him," he admitted.

The sudden pang she felt was the first reminder of the fragility, of the ephemerality of their bubble. It was a merciful one, she knew, and he knew it, too, shifting his body as if in discomfort.

"You think he'll mind?"

"Let's not think about this now. I love you, Sara."

The words, so definite so quickly, should alarm her; but Michael wasn't the first man who had slept with her and whispered love protestations that didn't survive the morning. Most of the other men she had known for more than two months and none had she met in prison. She had always known how to pick them, and Michael Scofield was just her pinnacle. Fittingly, for the first time since her teenage years, she believed the three words. Despite the lies he had told her and perhaps exactly because of them, she believed him.

No silence followed, the silence in which he would wait for her to reciprocate it. He stated it like a fact, something that came without doubts. She ran her hand over his scalp just as reassuringly, saving the words, as she would have the time to utter them a thousand times. His eyes finally met hers, and she saw that he knew without her telling him.

"You should get some sleep," she told him instead and tried to match the lightness of his fingers as she caressed his cheek. Under her touch, he closed his eyes.

"I'm not tired," he said and inhaled deeply, as if her skin still carried a scent other than the one of what they had done.

She knew he lied. He had been on a run for days, and with that agent and a plethora of others chasing him, he didn't grant himself sleep. She doubted he had slept much during his last nights in Fox River as well. But he concealed his tiredness just like he did the pain: with ease with which he gave her love.

"Liar," she whispered. It seemed impossible, but somehow he managed to move even closer to her. He draped one leg over hers, and her body tensed up again. He had to realize she was starting to agree that sleep was a bad idea, but he didn't act on it. A smile relaxed his lips, and he tangled his fingers in her hair.

"I have you here, now," he said. "We don't need to run, and there's no one pointing a gun at us. Just for now, it's just you and me. It seems sacrilegious to sleep it away."

"I'm not going anywhere," she said. "I'll be here when you wake up. I promise."

She dipped her head, just a little bit, and gently kissed his lips. They were so close to each other that the touch of their foreheads didn't break.

"I promise," she whispered again only for him to hear, and she meant so much more than what should be their first morning together.

He must have believed her, as he was asleep within seconds, giving himself over to her in his entirety. She didn't dare to move, for fear of disturbing him. So she watched his calm in the dim light, then let his breathing lull her into closing her own eyes.

* * *

It was a beautiful morning. The curtains, no matter how heavy they were, could not keep away the promise of a sunny day. The light still irritated her eyes as she opened them, as bright as the future seemed when she recalled last night, felt the arms that were still around her, as protective as they were loving.

He was still asleep.

She wanted to wake him, wanted the feel of her lips to be the first sensation of his day. She wanted more, she wanted things to be as they were last night, ignorant in their obstinance as well as in their love. The ease with which they let go of the world effortlessly deceived into thinking the world returned the favor.

Right now, they were still safe. No one knew how long it would be that way. Maybe forever; maybe hours was all they had. She didn't let herself think of minutes. What she did know, though, was that each hour, each minute that might be perilous, he would look after her, give her all the peace in his power.

So she now let him sleep, for just a bit longer.

Now that her eyes were inured to the light, she saw the bandage on his arm. Last night, amid their touches, she had let go of the world and forgot about it. Even if aching had not gone unnoticed by him as it did by her, of course he wouldn't bring it up, always so unperturbed by pain, so determined to have the night only for the two of them.

In daylight, it could no longer be hidden that the blood had stained the bandage. She would need to clean the wound and change the bandage. She glanced at the table by the window, seeing the bag of supplies they had gotten the day before. It was empty now. She scolded herself for not having had the forethought to buy more bandages. And of course, there was something else they should have gotten. But in that afternoon rush, she had still held on to indignation.

She wriggled out of his arms, careful not to wake him. The store was just across the parking lot. She should be back in minutes, she decided and put on the clothes that lay discarded on the floor. It would only take her a couple of minutes to get the bandages. She would make sure to get more this time; who knew how long it would take them to get to Panama, and most importantly, what their trip would be like. But even if everything went okay, perfectly, with no more inflictions, the wound on his arm would still need tending to. And of course, she needed to get something to undo what had been careless in their night.

She flung her purse over her shoulder. There really was no need to take away his sleep for the mere minutes it would take her. His eyes were closed, his countenance still peaceful. She thought about leaving him a note, a quick scribble that she just popped out to the store and would be back right away. The kind of note lovers leave for each other on the fridge.

But finding a piece of paper and fiddling with the pen, it would take her longer than going to the store. And she would be back in a minute, she reminded herself.

So she didn't wake him, nor left a note. She glanced at him once more, then carefully opened the door and just as quickly closed it behind her, so as not to let in any sound that could disturb him.

* * *

She wasn't there when he woke up.

It should have filled him with panic but didn't. Perhaps it was the memory of last night, the feel of her his hands had still felt, the taste of her that was still on his lips. He knew they were about to leave for Panama, he knew the dangers that awaited them, but fear didn't chill his heart and worries didn't flood his mind. It was a sensation unknown to him, one, he smiled at the thought, he would have to make it his habit.

As his eyes got used to the light, he saw that the bathroom door was partly open; however, the light inside wasn't on. It was the first puzzle that didn't make sense in the picture of this morning, the first morning that was theirs. He lifted himself up, grimaced at the sharp pain in his arm. The bandage was soaked with blood, but he barely gave it a second thought.

She wasn't in the room either.

Her purse was gone, too.

Of course. She was a doctor, after all, he smiled. She must have woken up before him, saw the mess his bandage was, and went to get new ones. She should have woken him, it wasn't safe out there, but the store was just across the parking lot. Her strength, her independence, it was something he admired in her, and it would be hypocritical for holding it against her, being herself this morning.

And besides, if someone had found them, they wouldn't have left them to their morning. So, really, the pang of worry he felt and the cold of the side of the bed where she should lie, it was just him, his mind, jumping to the worst possible contingencies.

She would be back, in no time.

So he lay back down, and waited.

* * *

The End.


End file.
